


So Comes Light After Darkness

by Illegible_Scribble



Series: 31 Days of Frodo/Sam, 2018 [21]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comfort, Cuddles, Established Relationship, Gandalf helps Frodo stay in the Shire, Hope, Hurt, M/M, Mildly graphic depictions of violence?, Nightmares, Post-Quest, Smoochtober 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 15:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16370615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: As the Third Age is ended with the clock on the mantle chiming twelve, Sam goes into the anniversary of the Ring's destruction as prepared as he can, to comfort Frodo through whatever visions will assail him.





	So Comes Light After Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> T rating is only because I'm unsure how to judge the general level of 'violence' in this work, which occurs in a nightmare sequence.
> 
> Based on [this prompt](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/132744) for Smoochtober 2018, #21: Midnight Kiss.

Though it was nearly midnight in early spring, a fire was still roaring in Bag End's parlor hearth, and the whole smial smelled thoroughly of _athelas_. It was almost overpowering, but in a relaxing, uplifting way.

Frodo and Sam were curled up by the fire in Bilbo's old armchair, the former nearly dozing in the other's arms. The clock on the mantle ticked away the seconds until midnight, and in spite of the calming scent of _athelas_ pervading the entire smial, he was still anxious. Frodo had reluctantly revealed on October 6th of the previous year to a bout of illness, and Sam tied a few realizations together as he realized it was the anniversary of Weathertop.

After that, he'd gone to dreadful trouble recruiting Merry and Pippin to help him get in touch with Gandalf – it had taken some doing, even going as far as Farmer Maggot and Tom Bombadil – but they'd found him, and persuaded the wizard back to the Shire for a good deal of talking. Among the many things he'd relayed to them, concerning Frodo's wounds from the Quest, were the likelihood of illness on anniversaries.

As the middle and end of March drew near, those words echoed in Sam's head incessantly, and he was much relieved to find the section of the garden he'd devoted to _athelas_ was flourishing; there was plenty of it to last several days. To his pain, on the 13th, Frodo had fallen into something of a waking nightmare that lasted several hours – and a good many more after, of fitful but more restful sleep – speaking often of the pain and the dark. Distressed though he was at this, Sam kept himself together by keeping the fire going, bringing in a few kettles of steaming water with _athelas_ crumbled into them, along with a towel dipped into that water, and permitted to cool a bit before Sam made a tentative compress against the back of Frodo's neck. This had been at Gandalf's suggestion, and to Sam's relief – so great, he wept – Frodo seemed to grow calmer the longer the _athelas_ was near, and calmer still when through his dark visions, he identified the hand holding his was Sam's, and the Phial of Galadriel was in the other.

The episode had lasted from mid-morning until the afternoon, when the sun was shining warm through the windows, and the vision passed, so Frodo might rest – though he still woke writhing and afraid often, but was conscious enough to fully acknowledge Sam and his safety by that time.

Throughout that day, Sam had spent most of it weeping with distress, but carried with Gandalf's instructions as best he could. Frodo had finally stirred late in the evening, and held to Sam desperately, relaying all the shadowed figures that had haunted the dark of his mind, and the pain and fear that had gripped him throughout. Sam held and cradled him through it all, listening and offering what comforts he could.

Today, he expected things to be much worse, though he tried not to express his anxiety to Frodo. It was a bit difficult to miss with the water kettles he'd already heated and filled with _athelas_ , and the compresses he'd laid out for Frodo's shoulder, hand and neck, but Frodo seemed to take a weary comfort in it; that he wasn't all together alone with whatever he was going to face.

“T'is the Gondorian New Year, eh?” Sam murmured into Frodo's hair.

“For them already, yes, considering how far East they are.” Frodo had hidden his face against Sam's neck. “Just a few more moments for us, now. The last moments of the Third Age.” he noticed Sam shift to reach for one of the compresses. “It doesn't start exactly at midnight.” he soothed, nuzzling him. “We... we'll know.”

For the moment held back, Sam focused all his attention on simply holding Frodo as the final seconds ticked away. “The passing of an Age.” Frodo murmured, feeling an emptiness open in his heart. He wondered how much of the new Age he would be able to see, here at home.

As the little mantle clock began intone twelve clear chimes, the two Ring-bearers shared a nuzzle and a warm kiss, that tasted sweeter with victory than bitter with fear. Sam then smoothed back Frodo's hair and studied him with concern and compassion. “Well, the Fourth Age it is, then. Feels a bit the same to me, but what about you?”

Frodo focused on the middle distance for some moments, before looking over to the clock, then back to Sam. “It does feel rather the same, doesn't it?” he sighed. “But I'm glad it's come about, anyway.”

Sam hummed his agreement, pulling Frodo closer. “I'm sure we could start up an awful loud party now, if we were wanting. You know, celebrate it all in with a bit of flair.”

Frodo laughed, clear and humored, tired though it was. “No, perhaps not tonight. In fact, I think I'm rather ready for bed.”

He could feel Sam squirming, and heard him make a troubled noise. “You sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. I don't feel ill yet, I promise; only tired, after someone's been keeping me up all night with kisses and wandering hands.”

This time Sam coughed innocently, but the blush on his face was a clear admission of guilt. “Not quite certain whatever it is you're talking about, Mister Frodo. Does sound awful tiring, though, to be sure.”

Frodo replied with a sly, “Mmhm.”

Sam relented in a few moments, beginning to shift so they could rise. “Will you be wanting any of the compresses?”

Frodo leaned around Sam to study them, and considered his pain in October – before they'd had so much _athelas_ handy, compared to what he'd felt almost two weeks ago. What had overcome his thoughts and the pain rekindled had not been the same to begin with, but even if it were the result of desperate hope and nothing more, Frodo was fairly certain the warmth and the _athelas_ had helped. “Yes, I think so. … All three, to be sure.”

Sam nodded, winding down the fire before gathering the compresses, and herding Frodo to bed. A new fire was set alight in the bedroom's hearth as Frodo settled in, and shortly after Sam sat beside him to begin applying the compresses. Frodo flinched from the heat and the initial shocks he felt surge through his body on the first touches, but insisted Sam continue, until each of them were gently secured. After some moments, it felt as though the warmth and _athelas_ were working slowly into his skin, melting lumps of ice that had settled there.

Sam subsequently clambered into bed beside him, drawing up the sheets and comforter up to their shoulders. “Let me know if there's a thing in the world I can get you, all right? I'll try to be getting up in not too long for more warm ones.”

An insistence that Sam needn't to go to so much trouble bubbled to Frodo's lips, but with a look into Sam's adoring eyes, he swallowed it back down. “Thank you,” he said, feeling tears beginning to cluster on his lashes, “thank you, Sam-love, for all of this and more.”

Sam gently draped his arm over Frodo's middle in a loose cuddle. “Ain't nothing I wouldn't do for you.”

Frodo did not doubt that, as they shared a nose and kiss of goodnight. He only hoped the whole of Sam's heart and the efforts of his words and hands, would be enough to help him heal, from the dragons that had settled into the depths of his heart and mind. He couldn't deny he was scared of what he'd encounter when he closed his eyes, but he felt better for it, knowing Sam was here and would not – for anything – leave him.

 

–

 

Grief and agony tore him to pieces tumbling through a firestorm of grief, over and over again colliding his broken parts and welding them together again before breaking them apart endlessly. It was so hot his skin was bubbling and the air boiled his lungs if he tried to breathe, but most of all the skin of his left hand seemed to be eternally sloughing off, first his index finger melting – bone and all – until the whole of his hand was reduced to an agonizing misshapen lump of flesh falling off his arm. Which in turn began to dissolve and melt off in incinerated strips, up to his elbow and shoulder, until it began to claim his torso and overcome his heart.

_Lost, lost forever._ He tried to scream, but there was nothing but the unseen fire boiling his veins and the darkness so vast it pressured him so hard he felt the burnt remains of him would turn immediately to dust.

This was because _It_ was lost forever, beyond his grasp eternally. If he still had _It_ , there would be no power to harm him, and all his days could be spent in quiet content and bliss. But it had fallen; fallen, far away, into the Fire, never to return. Without it, he held no power, not even to hold himself together; in time he would burn away to nothing, because there was nothing left to protect him from the evil that had leeched into his veins. _It_ was inside him, and he was forever incomplete without it; forever sentenced to know its fate but never recover from what it had torn out of him as it fell.

 

–

 

In a moment; a breath, a heartbeat, a thought, it slowed, and eased. The fire inside him cooled, and he realized still he was whole. Pierced, stung, bitten and brought long to his knees beneath a long burden, but separate from what was lost. In him he held great pains, but slowly they were easing as a gentle warmth of comfort – free of grief, contempt or fury – flooded him, and a white light pierced and grew to envelop the darkness.

He opened his eyes. He was damp with sweat, but no hotter than having been under one too many blankets for too long. Blinking, he supposed it must be afternoon, judging by the light coming in through the window.

As his eyes and senses adjusted, he focused on two surprising faces sitting at the foot of the bed: Merry and Pippin were looking at him with concern and nervous hope, while he felt a gentle hand on his forehead. Looking up and to his right, Sam was sitting beside him, smiling with tears in his eyes, and Sam nodded to Frodo's left.

Turning his head, Frodo blinked again with disbelief to see the most surprising face of all holding his left hand. Gandalf.

“Terribly sorry I wasn't here last week, my lad,” his voice was still that same, familiar rumble it had always been, “I regret I was delayed, but I'm here now. At the great insistence of your loved ones, in fact,” and he shared an approving smile with each of Frodo's kin, before looking back to Frodo, “here, to help, as best I may.”

Frodo was too overwhelmed to say anything more than, “Thank you,” to each and everyone clustered on and around the bed.

As it was, Merry and Pippin minded after the meals for the day, while Sam oversaw a continued production of _athelas_ water. Gandalf stayed nearly the whole day at Frodo's side, through the further nightmares, waking and asleep, talking with him and guiding him through each of them. He admitted in the first he had intervened directly, but progressively began to ease back, and guide Frodo as best he could to navigating them on his own, with Gandalf always near to shelter him if it grew too much.

When Frodo was lucid, he asked many questions. “Will it ever heal?”

“There is a chance,” Gandalf sighed, “but I fear no guarantee. It will be a long battle, much like this, for many years, I expect. It will hurt, and it will be frightening, and in the end a 'victory' may only appear the shortest and most painless version of these visions and hurts. I do not know if they will stop all together.”

“What would it be like in Valinor?”

“Similar, for a long while, though time does not flow there as it does here. It would be accelerated, and the physical pain is more likely to stop much sooner, and you might have an... easier time, I suppose, eh, 'coming to terms' with everything.

“But your mind would still be the trickiest thing, for memories cannot be made better as wounds can; perhaps better understood, and so less frightening. But of their own accord they can return, and bring the same fear and pain you would feel no matter where you were.”

“Would it kill me if I stayed?”

Gandalf was quiet for a very long while, studying the grieved desperation on Frodo's face. “With my help, I don't believe so. For as long as I may, I shall do what I can to help you, Frodo. I expect in subsequent years, if you're willing to keep on with it, all of this will get better in stages, and someday you won't need me anymore. It will take some time, and as I said will not be easy. But I believe you will be able to stay, and for most every day will be at ease and happy – there will be rough patches, but I will teach you what I can to overcome them.”

“I want that,” said Frodo, beginning to cry, “I want that more than anything.” He wanted to see the start of Merry and Pippin's families, and to see Sam become Mayor, and the _mallorn_ to flourish year after year. In his heart of hearts, he wanted most to give Sam the children Frodo knew he had always wanted, and they could adopt, and fill Bag End with all the little running feet it could hold.

He knew Gandalf wouldn't lie to him, and that it would hurt. It would hurt badly – but. He wanted the rest of his days to be filled with such joy among his family and friends, he would face what pain would come and fight with all his strength not to break under it. He wanted a happily ever after for himself, with Sam, and Merry and Pippin and all his little cousins- in the Shire, in his _home_.

His home. Which he would fight for – fight for, as he'd fought for it before, but in the name of others to protect it. Now, he would fight for it, but in his own name, to stay.

Gandalf smiled – not with pity, but with pride that brought tears to his eyes. “I will help you.” he said, placing a gentle hand on Frodo's forehead.

Bringing an end to Sauron had been his mission, when he was sent across the Sea. For more than two thousand years he had worked to fulfill it, and perhaps by terms of a contract, he had succeeded exactly a year ago. He felt strongly the call of the Sea, to return home to a deserved rest, but knew in his heart his task was not yet wholly complete, for traces of the pain the Dark Lord had wrought remained still – and it was pain only he, or others of his ilk could cure, and it was undeserved.

He could stay. He would stay. There would be ships still at the Grey Havens for many years yet.

He watched a gentle sleep come over Frodo, and knew no fell dreams rose to touch him. Sam came in, then, with another kettle steaming thickly with _athelas_ , and setting it down near the hearth, he turned back to Gandalf and asked, “Is he going to get better?”

Gandalf smiled broadly beneath his beard. “In time, and with much help. Help, including yours.”

Sam swallowed, hastening to dry his tears. “Anything for him.”

The wizard nodded approvingly. “Frodo is in safe hands, Samwise.”

They shared a courageous and hope-filled smile, before gazing down at Frodo, who slept peacefully.


End file.
